She readjusted the cloth, turned her back upon the figure, and, without vouchsafing a glance towards any of the other things, went back into the first room. The fire was burning bravely now. She heard its merry little roar, opened the stove door, and let a delicious red glow of light and warmth into the room, and over her own face, which still looked annoyed and disgusted. She wheeled the easy-chair up in front of the fire, took a book from the table, and composed herself, or tried to do so. ‘The idea of being such a fool about all this!’ she said to herself. ‘I am ashamed of myself. Let me forget it.’ Her book was a volume of Tacitus through which, with a small amount of schoolgirl Latin, and with the aid of a dictionary and a crib, she was plodding her way. Even to-day it succeeded after a time in drawing her mind away from its vexations. The time flew by; the fire diffused a pleasant warmth. Minna now and then roused enough to stretch out her hand to the wood-basket, and cast another log upon the flames, then returned to her book. She was at last aroused by a knock at the outer door. ‘Avanto!’ cried she, scarcely raising her eyes till someone wished her good-day. Then she looked up. A tall, fresh-complexioned and handsome young man, with something a little sarcastic in his smile, advanced into the room. ‘Oh, Hans!’ she said, with a slight smile. ‘Good-day to you.’ She spoke in German, and held out her hand. Hans Riemann was her cousin, the son of an English mother and a German father. He bent over her hand, touching it lightly with his lips, and saying: ‘If you are busy and I disturb you, say so, and I will at once go away.’ ‘Not in the least, thank you. I am very glad to see you. By the way, it is some time since I did see you. Where have you been?’ ‘Out beyond Olevano, for more than a week sketching,’ he replied carelessly. ‘It was glorious, Minna; I have found quite a decent inn out there--at least, you who have no nonsense about you would think it quite passable, I am sure. Let’s go out there, in spring some time, shall we? I can find scenery, and you models to any extent, and quite out of the common, too.’ ‘With all my heart--in spring,’ she agreed, in a melancholy voice. ‘Why that sigh? You look much graver than usual, now I come to observe you,’ he said, with a suddenly aroused interest. She broke into a short, vexed laugh. ‘I may well look grave--cross would be nearer the mark,’ she said. Then she told him what had happened. ‘I am desolated to hear such news,’ he assured her; ‘from purely selfish motives, if from no others. Are those delightful little evenings, then, over? No more talk, no more coffee, no more Chopin and Schumann and Raff? Gott! how painful!’ ‘I hope only for a time to be inhospitable,’ said she with a smile. ‘But I will tell you the truth. Something that happened after that vexed me far more than even my _padrona’s_ perverse behaviour.’